The Last Mardi Gras
by lokiyan
Summary: It has to count as some sort of betrayal when his own stepsister is pimping his wife out for some cheap beads. It just has to. Mature Content.*


A/N: A response to a meme on gossipgirlanon livejournal community. This is what happens when a) I'm an insomniac, b) I'm bored, c) yea, whatever, d) jealous!bored!Chuck brings the lulz

The Last Mardi Gras

This trip was not exactly what he had in mind. Honestly, what more could Chuck Bass want after a successful quarter in the market beside being in the midst of the most uninhibited celebrations his great country had to offer? Yet here he was, sitting dejectedly at another loud, gaudy bar in the French Quarter with a not-Johnny-Walker-Blue glass of what he could only describe piss water, surrounded by drunken women willing to flash their tits for a sip.

He was not enjoying himself at all.

Don't get him wrong, he wholeheartedly approved of this sort of behavior - after all, his first business venture was a burlesque club - but his mood sunk considerably when his wife of two years left him to go stare out a balcony with her best friend. Some marriage this was. It certainly didn't help that she was wearing a thin nearly sheer flapper dress that was hardly long enough to cover her delectable derriere. Again, that was not so much the nature of the problem - he had bought her the dress himself and when she stepped out of the hotel bathroom wrapped in the little number, he nearly threw her down on the bed and locked them in. When he was shopping, he should have realized how much he would hate it when she actually wore it in public.

So now, at Mardi Gras in New Orleans, of _all _places, Mr. Bass was sitting by himself, in a corner with a drink, making mental lists.

1. Never give the wife alcohol.

2. Get her a new best friend who wouldn't grab her ass in public for fun, or for beads and then laugh about it after.

3. Put that dress in the "bedroom only" chest in their room and hope that she gets the hint.

4. Drag her back-

And it was about that time when he looked over to find his too-dumb-to-be-wicked step sister laughing with that absurdly large mouth of hers and pulling at the hem of his wife's dress, trying to lift the whole damn thing up while a few frat guys cheered from the street below. The mixture of "Take it off!", "That's what I'm talking about!" and "Hey honey, let me see your mardi _bra_" was just the perfect soundtrack of a wonderfully horrid evening.

He slammed the glass on the table. Enough was enough. Chuck could tell he was having one of his "caveman moments" as Blair would say, but he doubt she'd blame him in the morning once the alcohol is flushed, or rather, fucked out of her system and she remembered exactly what she was doing at the moment. He marched over and with a hand around her wrist and another on the small of her back, he turned her around to face him. "Chuck! You're joining us!" She threw her arms around him, her strawberry margarita (what the hell? Why was his wife drinking margaritas?) painting the back of his dress shirt in a splash of red.

"Not quite. We're heading back."

"Aww, but Chuck, it's still eeearrly-"

"Don't be such a spoiled sport, bro-"

"Hey man, bring the hot brunette back!"

Various cheers and congratulations from men who probably somehow worked for him under one branch of Bass Inc or another followed him as he led his wife back to their suite at Hotel Monteleone. Somehow along the way, she picked up another drink and managed to sneer at three girls who tried to intercept him on the street. _Really_, he thought, _she's mad about three average looking chicks and I'm supposed to just sit back while hordes of horny men looked up the dress that he bought her in the first place_.

The crowd was impossible to get through. Didn't these people know who he was? Still, he was sick of everyone leering at the woman wearing his ring and though he was unfamiliar with the area, led her to a path away from the crowd, down a little alleyway off from the main road and hid her from their view with his body against hers, pinning her to the wall.

"Chuck, you getting into the holiday spirit?" She kissed his neck sloppily and her hands were flat against his chest, pressing against the cotton of his shirt hard enough for him to feel her warmth through the material. "About time, too. I was wondering if I was going to have to get one of those boys to entertain m-"

The very beginning of that sentence turned his stomach enough for him to silence her with a bruising, punishing kiss. She most likely was joking but if she had even _thought_ about doing that, he... well, he wasn't quite sure what he would do, but it would not be pleasant.

He traced the five strands of beads hanging from her delicate neck in gold, purple, green, black, and red and sneered at what she had done to get them. Nothing his eyes would have missed, but surely, whoever had given them to her had seen something in their very minds that would prompt him to order all the scientists in Bass Inc to figure out a way to erase someone's memory. "You like the damned beads so much, Blair?"

Perhaps she finally detected that slightly dangerous silence in his voice, or perhaps it was the way his fingers frantically entangled themselves with the mass of plastic around her neck but her eyes focused on him for the first time. She shied away from him a little and tilted her head down. "It's Mardi Gras, Chuck." But then she thought of all those times _he_ went out on those business dinners with his partners and their attempt-gold-digger daughters and high school no-nonsense Blair came back full force. "And maybe I do like them. What are you gonna do about that?"

He regarded her for a full minute, her cheeks flushed with alcohol and excitement, her lips smudged in her Chanel red lipstick and her eyes lit with moonlight, and he disentangled his fingers and took a half step back. "Nothing. I'm not going to do anything with them." Blair was wary of him; it wasn't like Chuck to back down. "I'm going to be a good husband and let my _wife_ keep the little trinkets she wants."

"...Chuck?"

And then he was on her, his lips harsher than before and his tongue relentlessly assaulting hers. She felt his hands _everywhere,_ his fingers working at the straps of her dress, the pressure of his palm against her breasts and the pads of his fingers gripping her hips against his. Suddenly, even in her drunken state, she registered the brick wall against her bare back even as he lifted her up. "I'll let you wear your precious beads and just that. Holiday spirit enough for you?"

She should have felt scandalized, being propositioned in an alley in New Orleans like a common prostitute, but a part of her, the part that curved her spine against him and threw her head back against the wall and watched the people pass by in the main street out of the corner of her eye grew excited at the feel of him straining against his pants for her. That part of her wondered briefly how white and long her legs must look in the moonlight, wrapped around her husband and extended to the bare skin of her waist, the more delicate parts hidden by Chuck's body. The cheap beads hung between her breasts and burned into her skin and that part of her won out. That part of her reached out for his zipper and nearly yanked it down before undoing the button and pulling at his briefs.

He slid into her without a comment and reveled in her wet heat. This was the sort of party that Chuck had signed up for. He knew some of them, the ones still sober and coherent enough, were looking into the alley for a free show and he knew that they couldn't quite see anything - just enough to know that this beauty was taken. "You like that?" he asked as he gripped her hips and pushed her hard against the wall. "You like those guys looking at you while we fuck?"

She whimpered, her mouth fallen open and her eyes closed. Even with the wall rough against her back like little fingers digging into her skin, she still felt the circle of protection she felt when he was in her, moving together. She felt his hand on her breast, kneading and squeezing before ducking down and placing a lick and a kiss to further stroke her fire. "These are mine. You know better, Blair-bear."

"Don't - Don't call me that." She was breathless, aroused like a bitch in heat, but she still had her principles.

"Well then don't do things like that." He pushed harder, faster and her small hands gripped his shoulder the steady herself. "When you do things like that, I have to show everyone that you're mine only."

His hands fell on her waist and he began to fuck in earnest, each stroke sending her up and down the wall. Her hair slid against most of her back, but still she could tell there would be scratches in the morning. For once, they would be on her back, not his. Her eyes opened and in her bleary vision, she was certain they had gather at least somewhat discreet three audience members and just at the thought itself, her legs tightened around him and she exploded, her head back, her chest thrusted out and her mouth open in a loud scream.

Chuck buried his face in the crook of her neck and pushed until he couldn't anymore and released himself in her, the feeling of her sweat was sensual and slick through his clothes. His hands shook even as they settled on her hair, her feet back on the ground, and kissed her lightly on the mouth.

"So I guess we're not coming back next year?" she murmured against his lips.

"I think I prefer France. I prefer your being jealous of Roman's subtle flirting with me over you and the whole of the LSU campus."

"Even the girls?"

And again, Chuck had never thought he would turn down the idea of a threesome involving him, his wife, and another girl, but here he was. "Even the girls."


End file.
